


Roses To Hide Swords

by genarti



Series: Lunar Base ABC [5]
Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Space, Gen, Kevin (sort of), Sparring, Worldbuilding, also some authors, cheap innuendo, pure silliness, yes I promise this is gen but some characters are 12 at heart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-16
Updated: 2014-12-16
Packaged: 2018-03-01 17:03:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2780897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genarti/pseuds/genarti
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of martial arts both recreational and not, and of many kinds of roses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Roses To Hide Swords

The first practitioners of the art that would become the Open Rose called it nothing of the sort. They were early residents of the lunar enclaves that would later become bases, and early pioneers of life upon the low-gravity plains. They were students of physiology and anatomy, of alveolar capacity and muscular resistance, of martial arts and weight-lifting and modified astronautic aerobics. They were also, despite their compelling work and close-knit teams, often extremely bored. Out of a hodge-podge of physical arts and the challenge of this new environment they created a style of lunar calisthenics.

It was another early settler, a hydrobotanist and philosopher, who gave the art its name and its character a few years later. His name was Emile Mabeuf, and many of his descendants are lunar residents still. It was he who elevated Lunar Calisthenics to a discipline with its own aesthetics and its own mental discipline, and he who named it the Open Rose after the flowers he missed, and could not yet grow. His hydroponic gardens in those days had to be devoted to the most essential plants, those that offered both oxygen and plentiful vegetables; the moon was some decades away from the leisure of growing roses. In their honor he conceived of a lunar art of both motion and philosophy, one that nourished both the musculoskeletal system and a more metaphorical heart. The rose, he said, was the soul. It would flourish on the moon's wide plains. An open mind, an open heart, broad gestures, leaps and flourishes, stances rooted deep to the ground: all these would unite in a true practitioner of lunar arts. It caught the imagination. A century and more later, the Open Rose was a common hobby. It was taught to new immigrants to teach them to be at ease with lunar motion; it was offered to all schoolchildren as a more compelling means of maintaining health than centrifugal bicycles. Half philosophy, half sport. Rose Clubs existed on every base; teenagers sniggered over the innocent terminology of their youthful lessons; even the least athletically inclined could identify the basic stances, and drop into slapdash versions of them as their bodies allowed. Ubiquitous.

With the growth of the movements towards lunar self-sufficiency and lunar independence, especially after the tumult of the Atmospheric Resource Tariff negotiations and all the aftermath of the Bourbon Accords, another branch developed from this bush. Its creators looked back to the terminology of history, and turned it to new use. From La Rose Ouverte they created La Rose Couverte, the Covered Rose. Less meditative than martial, less codified than opportunistic, less serene than vicious. Mindset as much as physical technique. They created a system of low-gravity physical combat, disguised as the omnipresent discipline of the moon, and buried rose-thorns beneath a carpet of blossoms.

Among the Friends of a certain reading group on ABC Base, all practiced the Covered Rose to one extent or another, as was only sensible for members of such a society. Still, some devoted more time to such practice, and took more naturally to the skills. Among the group's lieutenants, Enjolras and Bahorel were the acknowledged masters. Grantaire might have joined them for physical skill, but he persisted in treating it always as schoolboy sport. 

Thus, when Cosette mentioned to Courfeyrac how she had enjoyed her Open Rose lessons in school -- when she inquired, over coffee, of both Courfeyrac and Marius Pontmercy where the best practice spaces might be found, and asked if either of them would be willing to partner with her sometimes -- when, a few days later in a more sober moment behind the surveillance bafflers, she asked what he thought might happen when the demands of a united Moon were truly put before Earth -- when all these things had happened, it was to Enjolras that Courfeyrac brought her. "A pupil for you," he said. "More apt than the last, I think."

The last pupil Courfeyrac had brought had been Marius Pontmercy, who was Earth-raised and bumbling still in low gravity, and whose attitude towards extreme personal violence no one had quite been able to discern despite repeated attempts to elicit a clear philosophy. Accordingly he had been turned over to old Jean Mabeuf, who like his ancestor united botany and philosophy and a certain benevolent dreaminess, to learn the basics of the Open Rose before anyone attempted to teach him its deceitful cousin. Still, the look Enjolras gave Courfeyrac was mild and thoughtful. He would only have been sardonic if Courfeyrac had been wrong in his guess, and that was not to be.

"Oh?" he said to Courfeyrac, and to Cosette, "Very well. Meet me at the Chanvrerie gym at -- when's your next free period for exercise?" She passed him her schedule across the comms. They conferred: the next day at 1400. "Good," said Enjolras. "I'll be practicing with Courfeyrac right before then anyway. You can watch the end if you want. That will be an introduction to our style."

Mystified, Cosette went away to have dinner with her father and spend the evening immersed in engineering homework. That night, she received a message from Enjolras, a small and bare-bones file tucked inside an article about apple grafting on Earth. (Cosette found the article interesting in its own right, but already she knew Enjolras well enough to suspect that he'd picked it at random, possibly from Combeferre's browsing history. In this she was correct.) The file explained the line of thought which had covered the Open Rose, and the general manner in which its gentle philosophy had been transformed. It was the first piece of a primer.

* * *

Courfeyrac appreciated sparring sessions with Enjolras. He appreciated them not only because he enjoyed spending time with friends, but because Enjolras was an excellent teacher and an inexorable taskmaster, and every practice session made Courfeyrac a better fighter for their dear moon, against the day when such skills would be necessary.

He reminded himself firmly that all these facts remained true even when, as usual, Enjolras was patiently and inexorably and educationally trouncing him.

The door pinged. It was a quiet, decorous beep -- the standard ping for a public area, although proof that nobody from Bahorel and Prouvaire's crowd had gotten into the circuitry recently -- and it was followed by Cosette's voice over the speaker. "Um, hi? Sorry I'm late, I had to -- should I just come in?"

Enjolras looked over, without in the least relaxing the chokehold he currently had on Courfeyrac. "Yes," he called. "Go ahead."

The bastard didn't even sound winded. He was breathing hard, as Courfeyrac could currently feel against his hair, but it was clearly not enough to prevent him from pushing his voice into normality. "You've got _no manners_ ," Courfeyrac bit out, and used the moment's petulant envy to spur himself into a jump. He'd tried this before, but Enjolras had countered it; this time, he managed enough force and precise timing to get them both off the ground, and twisted around so that it was Enjolras who hit the ceiling back-first just as the door opened. His grip on Courfeyrac wasn't dislodged, but his chokehold was.

Somewhere over to their right, Cosette squeaked.

Courfeyrac found that he was grinning again, even though gravity had rebounded them again towards the padded floor. "Good air!" he caroled, tucking his feet underneath him, and then lost the words in a grunt when Enjolras hooked his legs and pinioned them with his own. Together they slammed down onto the mats.

The experience of having the wind entirely knocked out of him had yet to get any easier or more pleasant. He endured the moment of feeling as if he would never breathe again, as if he'd been thrown helmetless outside the dome, while his body refused to do anything but struggle for air. Meanwhile Enjolras rolled them over and put two knuckles to his throat.

"Dead," Enjolras gasped.

Courfeyrac might have produced any of several quite witty remarks, except that he was too busy wheezing to think of them.

Cosette's voice came from somewhere over to his right, by the drinks dispenser. "I've never seen anything like that." Distantly, through his undignified wheezing, Courfeyrac was pleased to note that while she sounded uncertain and a little shocked, she didn't sound afraid. There was interest there, he thought. Whether or not she proved to have a fighter's heart or skill, it was a hopeful sign. "I read what you sent me, I did, but I didn't picture it right -- I've never even _heard_ of the Open Rose being done like that. Is he all right?"

"That's because this rose is not open," said Enjolras.

"He's fine," Courfeyrac informed the ceiling, after an experimental cough. "Ugh. Enjolras, you're a jerk and you owe me chocolate." He held out a hand, and with a tolerant little eyeroll Enjolras grasped it to pull him up. Courfeyrac grinned at Cosette. "Don't worry, he's only a jerk to advanced students of our little art. Feel free to slam him into a ceiling for me if the spirit moves you, all the same. Enjolras, you clasped my hand, and I take that as a sign that you agree about the chocolate."

"Go have some water," Enjolras said.

Courfeyrac noted with cheer that that wasn't disagreement. He clapped Cosette on the shoulder in reassurance, and went to flop gratefully on a bench, guzzle a bit of water, and indulge in a little sulking about the bruises he'd just gotten himself. Enjolras, meanwhile, began to lead Cosette through warm-up exercises.

He was focusing hard enough on Cosette's technique and skill -- which was respectable, even if she had clearly never turned it to the endeavor of striking other people, a necessary precursor to thinking of ways to maim or kill them -- that Cosette had gotten all the way through her warm-up and into striking drills before he really began to focus on the words Enjolras was saying, as he explained the physical and mental distinctions between the Closed and Open Roses.

Currently, those words were, "Your punches are good, but you're showing your intentions too openly. Don't put everything on display." Courfeyrac promptly and involuntarily choked on his water.

“Courfeyrac, are you all right?”

Courfeyrac coughed. “Perfectly,” he said, rather weakly. “I just have something in my throat, I think.”

Enjolras accepted this with a small gesture, and turned back to teaching. Cosette flicked an uncertain glance Courfeyrac’s way before she returned to intently showing Enjolras her best attempts to throat-punch a practice pad. So far, she didn’t seem to have much of a vicious streak, but one never knew.

The trouble was that Cosette was young, and pretty, and trying hard to prove herself, and learning close-quarters physical activity from an older friend who was, moreover, Enjolras. Courfeyrac could very easily make these lessons extremely awkward for her. (Enjolras probably wouldn’t allow that awkwardness to dent his businesslike serenity, but that wasn’t the point.) He had no desire to do so.

But it was extremely difficult, when he was nearly bursting with the urge to say _I’m sorry, Enjolras, Cosette seems to be budding nicely under her modest cover, but I just can’t attend to her opening rosebud -- I have something in my throat, you see -- forgive me, I’m sure I wouldn’t be in this state except that you tired me out so earlier, and may I commend you on your stamina by the way --_

Enjolras, entirely and genuinely focused on balance and stances, was now reminding Cosette to keep her legs closer together. Courfeyrac buried his face in his knees for a moment.

He barely lasted another two minutes before he had to mutter something apologetically unintelligible at them both and flee. Bossuet or Bahorel would understand his extraordinary heroism in keeping even as much of a straight face as he had.

**Author's Note:**

> Like so much else, this fic is all BobbieWickham's fault. The rose jokes are _especially_ her fault.


End file.
